


What dreams may come

by Kaiyo_no_Hime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, smut with a touch of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyo_no_Hime/pseuds/Kaiyo_no_Hime
Summary: Geralt hates the sound of that song, that damn song, as it dances across his bard's lips.  Hates how it reminds him of how he nearly lost his bard due to his own words.But he loves how Jaskier likes to sing it last, teases him with it, and dares Geralt to kiss it off his lips in their room after.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 168





	What dreams may come

Geralt let out a measured breath before he turned and pinned Jaskier to the now closed door of their room, leaning in and snarling at his companion. He had made himself clear before, multiple times before even, and yet the damn bard had thrown it in his face and played that damn song.

He hated that song. Hated how it reminded him of what he had done, and what it had nearly cost him.

Jaskier just grinned back at him, the lute dropping gently to his side.

“I told you not to play that fucking song,” Geralt snapped, leaning in close. “I hate that fucking song.”

“Really,” Jaskier said cheekily, and Geralt could smell the arousal on him. “And here I thought you hated that little ditty about coins even more.”

Geralt snapped at him, leaning in, ignoring the smell of ale and others that had been petting at and fondling his bard. His stupid, foolish bard that liked to tease and taunt him. His bard, who knew how to play him just as well as that damn lute. All fingers and words and grace, never a note out of place.

“I could sing a few bars, just to compare,” Jaskier smiled. “ _Her sweet kiss_ -”

Geralt cut him off with a growl, nipping and sucking at his lips, letting his tongue dance against his bard’s. Fuck, the things he had to do to keep the man quiet.

Jaskier’s doublet quickly slipped to the floor, and Geralt let his fingers dance across the lacings of his blouse. The damn thing fought against him, ties tightening rather than loosening as he pulled on them. He growled in frustration as Jaskier pulled away from the kiss and swatted at his hands.

“Cut that out, you brute,” Jaskier snapped, fingers working deftly at the strings. “You’ll rip them at this rate, and then they’ll be no good at all.”

“Don’t need clothes,” Geralt said, pressing kisses along Jaskier’s neck and spreading his legs with his knee as he grabbed at his waist.

Jaskier hummed in acknowledgment, his hands tangling themselves in Geralt’s hair, tugging as he moaned. Geralt grinned, lapping and sucking at the little patch of skin just above his collar bone that always made his bard make the most beautiful sounds. 

Jaskier did not disappoint.

“Don’t need clothes,” Jaskier agreed. “Need you.”

Geralt didn’t need to be told twice, and started tugging at Jaskier’s pants, shoving another hand up his blouse and letting his fingers dance across his chest. The frantic heartbeat echoed out at him, and he tugged at the offending clothes even harder. Too many layers, too difficult to undress.

He hated the damn silk fashions.

“No fair,” Jaskier moaned as Geralt rolled a nipple between his fingers. “You’ve clothes too.”

Geralt nipped at Jaskier’s neck, and then stepped away, pulling his shirt over his head far more easily than Jaskier could, and kicking his pants to the side. Jaskier took a few moments longer, tripping over a last pant leg as Geralt backed him against the wall, pinning him and kissing him, a small jar of oil heavy in one hand.

He palmed his bard easily in his hand, already hard and straining, and grinned.

“Thought it was her sweet kiss,” Geralt asked, pouring oil from the small jar onto his fingers.

“Rather,” Jaskier panted as Geralt began to stretch him slowly. “Mine.”

Geralt kissed him, thrusting against his stomach, his fingers in his ass. He hated that song, hated how much it reminded him of everything he had thrown away. _Nearly_ thrown away, he reminded himself. Jaskier was here now, moaning and naked, waiting to be taken hard against a wooden wall.

Moaning his name, panting for him. 

And he wasn’t going to let him walk away every again.

Geralt poured the oil into his hand and palmed himself, picking Jaskier up and teasing at his entrance. Jaskier tugged on his hair again, wrapping his legs around his waist and knocked his head back against the wall.

“Tease,” he panted, trying to thrust against Geralt.

Geralt held him there for a moment longer, and then sank into him, moaning and panting against Jaskier’s shoulder as he thrust slowly. Jaskier’s breath hitched, and he let out a whining keen that had Geralt nearly purring in approval.

He had done this. Had made Jaskier happy, made him feel loved. And now Jaskier would know that Geralt would never wish him away again. His bard was _his_.

Geralt thrust again, stroking Jaskier in time, gentle rubbing his thumb over the head and twisting back down the shaft. Another stroke, another thrust, and Jaskier squeezing his legs and trying to thrust down, making his displeasure known.

“More, Geralt,” Jaskier panted, trying to glare down at the witcher.

Yes, he would always give him more. Just a little more. Geralt slammed into his bard, suckling at a nipple as he slid his hand over Jaskier’s dick and regretted needing his second hand to hold his bard steady. There was so much skin he couldn’t touch, so much he was missing.

And he wanted more.

With a strangled cry Jaskier came, and Geralt watched the man, sweat beading on his skin, his hair wild, and grinned. All his.

Geralt thrust one last time, and came, heaving against his bard-

Geralt’s eyes shot open, and he stared into the empty darkness of the campsite. Roach was there, tied for the night, her breathing the even calm of deep sleep. Resting, as he should be, for the days ahead.

But, instead, his mind had decided to torment him. Again. That damn dream. Geralt, could feel himself straining, begging to be brought to completion. But he couldn’t do that, not after that dream, not with the haunting images of Jaskier’s face, sweaty and glorious, still burned across his vision.

It would nearly feel like betraying his bard, after what he had done. No, he corrected himself, not his bard.

Jaskier wasn’t his. Jaskier was gone.

He had thrown that all away.

**Author's Note:**

> *Geralt pouts in the corner*
> 
> Jaskier: ...
> 
> Jaskier: you did it again.
> 
> Me: what? You didn't get sworded this time.
> 
> *Geralt perks up at the mention of sword*
> 
> Jaskier: you made it all angsty at the end again! I can't get off to that!
> 
> *Geralt goes back to pouting*
> 
> Jaskier: and look at what you've done to him! Even Roach is getting sick of this!
> 
> *Roach nods in agreement*
> 
> Me: I stand by my filthy, angst filled decisions. 
> 
> Jaskier: you could at least provide catering!
> 
> *hurls chocolate babka at Jaskier's head and goes back to contemplating how best to stab him next time*


End file.
